So real, that I combed it four times because a character-type jumped out at me. In a quoted description of their exchange, I was floored.

“He’d made it very clear from the beginning that he didn’t want a girlfriend.

“No titles,” he’d said. And I’d agreed.

And we hung out, messed around, went out on dates, exchanged gifts, he met my parents. But he’d been clear. No titles.”

This mystery man, whom the author chooses to leave anonymous (but is no doubt KNOWN within her circle) is the quintessential non-committed man. She dealt with him. It didn’t work out. A valuable life lesson (“how’s” and “why’s” included) was learned, sooner rather than later.

Buuuuuuuuuuuut.

For the men, across the blogosphere who were forwarded this blog we collectively gave each other “the look”.

You know, the look niggas give one another as the WHOLE barbershop falls deathly silent when lil TeQuan’s mama (with the slim waist and phat ass) walks in. The look that unquestionably screams, “yo famo…you see this shit?”

Curiously, the look is not directed towards the author, nor the author’s former self whom she eloquently depicts, but towards the un-named tall Friend (+Benefits) quoted above.

Here at The Ninja Parade, we’re all about people learning valuable life lessons and receiving stress-free box. And I get the feeling that the author turned out alright after all, but to the antagonist of that blog, we say this…

No offense bruh, but you jagged off some perfectly good and completely free college box […and lowkey probably messed it up for the next cat.]

Here’s 2 Good Reasons why:

1. You Didn’t “Out” The Other Heaux: see, ninjas mess stuff up because for one reason or another, they refuse to let women know that there are other women. Ol El Jugo learned a long looooooong time ago a very simple truth: that when a woman has made up her mind that she wants a man (as the author instantly did upon SEEING this nigga) she will often turn a blind eye to the presence of other women. I mean, it’s cool and all that you let lil mama know you didn’t want a relationship or titles, but the very next breath should suggest that other heaux are in the background/sideline. This, of course, has to be done with great care. Because a woman will tolerate it as long as a) you directly or indirectly make the extra heaux known, b) you do not in any way embarrass ANY of them, c) you are out here blowing their WHOLE COLLECTIVE BACKS (plural, as in all of them) OUT. You’d be surprised what a woman will “know” but “not know” if you can make them moan.

2. Boyfriend “Privileges”: *sigh* this is THE #1 Cause that perfectly good and free college, grad school, law school, medical school, office, gym membership, and any other random free box is messed up. Niggas…do…too…much. Men need to understand something, not every woman is interested in being your wife, your soulmate, your babymama, or lowkey even your friend…sometimes she’ll be cool with a couple drinks, a few laughs and a few more pelvic thrusts. Granted, you have to let a woman be a woman, some stuff, you judiciously have to let her nurture for you. However, other than the occasional meal or sleepover, shiiiiiiiiiiiid my dude, she’s probably laying there afterwards wondering if she DVR’d Love & Hip Hop, and if not, can she make it home in time to catch a re-run. She ain’t in love witcho black ass and she’s perfectly okay with it. But NOOOOOOOOO. You lay there with her, all night, nose all buried in your chest having all manner of intimate conversation, exchanging gifts, meeting parents n’shyt. You mistook your role as Primary Penis Provider (PPP or P3) for a boyfriend. Dumbass. Boyfriend Privileges are like cologne…the more of it you put on, the more you make women nauseous when they truly get close to you.

“You niggas think I sing songs and run around here and do dances” – Ray J

First off… shoutout to DJ Envy, Angela Yee, and Charlamagne Tha God (and the whole Power 105.1 staff) for keeping a straight face through the entire Ray J phone call. [But ya’ll slick wrong as hell for playing “One Wish” to lead into the commercial break…we peeped that] Way to keep it professional in the face of patent absurdity.

“I’m tired of being humble with niggas” – Ray J

Secondly…not that Infamous El Jugo doesn’t believe Ray J is a raging egomaniac that actually believes that he can “smack them b!tch ass niggas” on site, it’s just the mental image of Brandy’s brother actually putting his hands on someone that makes us shake our heads and go, “naaaahhh”.

“I got pink slips on everyone of my whips” – Ray J.

Third… all things considered, it’s not out of the scope of reason that Ray J would want to spring on a nigga for cracking jokes; after all, he does roll with the “Money Team” and get designs cut into the side of his head, and who could forget “Boyfriend” off the All I Feel album?? #thugshyt

“I play piano on that piano every muthafukin day” – Ray J

Lastly, as if the egregious name-dropping weren’t enough to raise an eyebrow about the interview he goes on to continue to make threats against Fab. Granted, Fab has never portrayed himself as a “thug” type of rapper, or given the impression that he’s out here head-butting niggas and whatnot…but you know what, fuck it…this nigga Ray J lyin.

[Editor’s Note: Oh, Hello. As a brief aside from the rather crass lambasting that the creative forces behind The Ninja Parade serve up on a regular, we would like to offer you today a more polished and refined piece. Consider this a sprig of fresh cilantro on the side of your normally ignant Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Don’t get it twisted though, despite the rather high brow approach, we are actually SONNING THE SHYT out of famo. Now, I’ll turn the blog over to our Sr. Geo-Political Correspondent, KatcherNTheRye]

‘Cause a ninja wear a kufi, it don’t mean that he bright

America is a more perfect union in part because its citizens have the right to free speech as provided by the 1st Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. America has become a less intelligent society in part because too many of its citizens exercise that right despite not knowing what they’re talking about.

Hello, Lupe Fiasco, nee’ Wasalu Muhammad Jaco.

During a recent CBS interview, Fiasco, a critically acclaimed rapper and Chicago native, had this to say:

“For me, the biggest terrorist is Obama in the United States of America. I’m trying to fight the terrorism that’s causing the other forms of terrorism. You know the root cause of terrorists is the stuff the U.S. government allows to happen. The foreign policies that we have in place in different countries that inspire people to become terrorists.”

I don’t know about you but I feel absolutely fucking terrified.

All that stands between us and the biggest terrorist, President Obama, is Lupe Fiasco, who is trying to fight the terrorism that’s causing other forms of terrorism. Except, well, what other forms of terrorism are being caused by the terrorism he’s fighting? And by what means is Fiasco fighting this terrorism? By his own admission he doesn’t vote.

My brain atrophies each time I try to pick through Fiasco’s word salad, which is neither cogent nor salient. It’s the hubris that’s to be expected when someone who’s content to regurgitate the scattershot rhetoric of anti-establishment blowhards is given the opportunity to speak his mind publicly. Serious, thoughtful political discourse suffers another casualty each time someone such as Fiasco weighs in.
That’s intellectual terrorism and Fiasco needs to be called out, not celebrated.

In particular, his statement that,

“The foreign policies that [the U.S. has] in place in different countries that inspire people to become terrorists,”

…barely constitutes the shell of an argument. It’s much closer to being an accusation, one that is lacking wholly in substance. What foreign policies, specifically? How are people inspired to become terrorists? What people?

To those who pride themselves on feeling (as opposed to actually being) “conscious,” Fiasco is killin’ it! [These same niggas typically have Ph.d’s in the most popular conspiracy theories and cut hair on the side, See Also 4 Great Myths & Conspiracies] It doesn’t really matter than he didn’t get around to saying what makes President Obama not just a terrorist, but the biggest terrorist. And I guess it doesn’t matter, either, that Fiasco didn’t cite an example of America’s foreign policy toward even one nation.

But words have meaning, so, yes, it does matter. Lots.

In the micro, the reality is that President Obama is not a terrorist. The far-left fringe is upset because America is prosecuting three wars that it can’t afford to fight and, unfortunately, have resulted in the deaths of innocent civilians.

In the macro, the reality is that no one who is elected president of the United States begins his term with a clean foreign policy slate. The policies he adopts and pursues are necessarily influenced by the policies his predecessor adopted and pursued. Then there’s the matter of the countries these policies affect.

Are the Chinese, for example, going to wake up one day and decide it’s just fine that America sells tens of billions of dollars of arms to Taiwan? Are Americans going to be energy independent anytime soon, thereby freeing the government to stop supporting the oppressive House of Saud?

People are entitled to their opinions but not their own facts. If people want to be taken seriously even after they’ve offered their opinion –often unsolicited– it must be informed by understanding and an appreciation for context. Fiasco’s opinions are informed by abysmal ignorance and a pitifully myopic world view.

That’s enough to get Facebook to get “Likes,” Retweets and blog co-signs, but among people who have a real interest in geopolitics, Fiasco can kick … and push … and coast his ass the fcuk outta here.

“LOVE? You know, what do you know about love? What do you possibly think you know about love? You know …LOVE should have brought your ass home last night!”

[Editor’s Forward: As stated in other blogs, we at the Ninja Parade are taking great strides to diversify our content. Our ignorance can no longer be confined to the sheer mockery of society and putting a muthafuka on blast for kicks and giggles…but we desire also, to show our softer, more compassionate, ignant side. Enjoy, ~The Infamous El Jugo]

Little girl lost

I’m a virgin to the ninja parade [Editor’s Note: …and to the Ninja Parade only] but I’m going to rock this shyt like I’m Tyler Perry at a Women in White “Usher Board” Baptist Church convention.

So, my so called adult life started out like a story straight out of black college life weekly. Girl goes to black college, pledges sorority, meets boy, falls in love, dates all through college, gets married, and *wait for it*… Divorces boy.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I even thought of several ways in which to ruin my ex husbands career. *yeah, I was on some bitter sour apple b*tch shyt*

I even went through his emails and forwarded out all his philandering emails with other women [See Also: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles, vol 1] to his new main chick. I must say, that was some of my best work. I had to show the New b*tch, I mean new chick, nah…I mean bitch: he cheating on you and you just a couple months in, heaux [See Also: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles, vol 2]. You not special…bwhahaha…But I digress.

As more time passed, I discovered that I was in fact a little girl lost. I didn’t know what I wanted out of life anymore. I didn’t know what true love meant anymore. I questioned everything that I once knew to be fact. All I knew was that, things changed and they were not for the better.

I spent day in and day out working, hanging out occasionally, and just surviving. It’s like my life was on auto pilot and Phyllis Hyman was singing the soundtrack to my new life. *and we know how that story ended* <<cues Phyllis Hyman “Living All Alone”, takes extra long hit of that Afghan, sits down glass of Pinot…picks up bottle>>

And while the days have gotten better, it’s still an uphill battle to find myself again and I’ve currently drawn the following conclusions…

I Don’t Know Shyt About Men…I Admit it…You F*ckas Confuse the Shyt Out of Me. Some of you ninjas want a quiet submissive woman, some want you to be they momma, and others want you to be a fucking mind reader…I give up…you win…Ill just love on B.O.B till I figure out an alternative…<<insert images of Bullet named Leroy>>

I’m a Strong Punk…What I mean by this is…I cry about everything, yet I manage to pick myself up and get right back on the horse. At first I thought this showed my weakness, but I have learned it shows my never give up nature. <<cues “We Fall Down” by Donnie McClurkin with strange vibrating sound in back>>

I’ve always been told the first step to healing or solving a problem is to admit it. So here it is. I am a lost little girl who is trying to find her way in life and love with a broken compass. I think its time to ditch the compass and actually learn from my mistakes, listen to sound advice from creditable individuals, and trust that tiny voice inside that I have ignored in the past.

It has been the mission and creed of this blog to poke fun and make light of, just about everything. Today, we have a very special episode of The Ninja Parade, with a message of social empowerment, forward-thinking meditation, and economic stability for the future.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” – Juliet (Shakespear, “Romeo & Juliet”). Truer words may never have been spoken. Although the spirit of what ol Willy Shake is communicating through Juliet, is that names are rather meaningless constructions…yet, in 2011, we gots to be mo careful!

There has been an alarming trend that has caused a literal state of emergency in the black community. I’ll share with you an excerpt from a friend’s FB status.

I have officially heard it all. I am at Party City and this chick just called her little girls name…you will NEVER guess what it is!!!!! LICENSE!!!! I am outdone. #ninjapartycity

License? Really? This the type of bullshyt I’m tombout.

Look, we can blame a lot of things: we can blame the white man, we can blame Republicans, we can blame Bush, hell we can blame it on the rain…but we can’t blame anybody but ourselves for such foolishness.

“I” (El Jugo) have sat in hiring meetings, designed with the sole and specific purpose of creating employment opportunities for minorities and watched resumes and applications get literally thrown away because of ridiculously ignant names. I have SEEN this happen, so imagine what has gone unseen?

But we still persist with the dashes and hyphens like shit’s sweet? Ya’ll act like it’s just a lot of jobs out here. Granted, I know we should be teaching our children entrepreneurship, but damn, you think dude at the bank isn’t snickering when he gets that SBA loan application? You bet your ass he is.

The moral of this story: we cannot keep economically disenfranchising children, all over some shit we think is cute and creative.

Allow me to address your common objections to the common sense now:

1)“But President Obama is named…”. Please, systemmatically miss me with the bullshit paper-thin argument. There is a BOLD line between indigenous cultural names, like Barack, and that tomfoolery you pulled out of your ass that’s a mix of your name, your babydaddy’s name, your favorite clear liquor, and your favorite underground rapper (who has a 27% chance of being the father). Just stop, and read a damn book.

2) “My name is <insert random 11 syllable hood shyt>, and I’m doing just fine”. This may very well be true, but don’t allow your relative success to subtly seduce you into thinking that you’ve gotten all you can. Here’s the thing about being denied opportunity, MFr’s are in NO WAY obligated to tell you why they didn’t give you shyt. So, yes, you’ve landed a comfy position doing XYZ…but you applied to ABC, STU, and DEF first and they all chuckled at your resume and tossed that isht away. The reality is, none of knows the extent to which we’ve been denied opportunity because our name. That includes you.

3) “It’s my baby…I can name it whatever 11 syllable hood shyt, with a hyphen, I want”. Technically, it is your baby…for now. And maybe I shouldn’t care, but I do. Simply because children who are already systematically denied resources because of the color of their skin and/or socio-economic status are getting a double whammy of inherently suspect names. Not fair. Thing is, that baby has to grow, and upon full growth, said baby becomes a part of the larger mainstream. The mainstream is where MOST shyt of substance, happens that could change the various sub-communities. So even if you’re raising up a revolution through your baby revolutionary…shyt’s not sweet. Damn, we already black.

By virtue of the fact that, if you’re reading this and you’ve already named your seed some outlandish shyt, you’ve already proven a lapse in judgement…so let’s make a compromise since you hardheaded anyway. Give your baby a pronounceable 1-2 syllable middle name, that way he/she can have the choice to disregard the bullshyt you gave them upon entry, and make some moves, or at least get a job/promotion.

Ok, so again, I must collectively pull the card of my real friends, and social media friends by exposing the impending delusion of the outlandish shyt ya’ll say. As we all struggle for relevance in a cluttered world, let us please do so with a touch of class, a shred of integrity, and most of all…a healthy dose of truth.

Here are three things that people [READ: black folks] commonly pontificate about:

1) HATERS. *long drawn out sigh* Let’s put this thing to rest, for once and for all. Haters are real, but unless you are in the upper-tier leadership of some religious, professional, academic, social, philanthropic, or cultural movement AND/OR have a net worth (after taxes, in cold hard cash) of 6-figures or more…AIN’T NOBODY THINKIN ABOUT YO BLACK ASS. That’s not to say people don’t hate you, because they probably do. But hating you, and hating “on” you, are two different things. They can’t hate on you, because despite how cold you think your knock-off purse collection is, how hard you stunt in fake Polo shirts with cloudy diamond chains…you really ain’t shyt, for real. And if you’ve tweeted, facebooked, skyped, or texted someone more than once in the last 30 days about “haters”…you still ain’t shyt. People don’t like you because you’re self-absorbed and delusional…not because they want to be you, be like you, or anything else. [NOTE: offering a critical opinion of you does not in anyway constitute “hating”, and having a “I don’t care what other people say” mentality is a sure way to end up less effective in your endeavors and ultimately alone…you’re welcome.]

2a) CORPORATE THUGS. This is even more ridiculous. Look, you’re either corporate, or you’re thuggin…that’s it. Even if you’re corporate and you’re engaged in felonious activity, I doubt it’s huggin the block and plotting moves on rivals…get the FCUK out of her and go try and figure a way to defraud the government on tax money ninja. And if you’re thuggin, having working internet and two button-up shirts doesn’t make you any more corporate than standing in a garage makes you a damn car. Owning a “promotion company”, or record label with less than 50,000 units, or mobile auto detail doesn’t count either. I don’t know what’s more ridiculous, the fact Jay-Z (et. al) have collectively sold you a dream of some suited intelligent business man who runs into a phone booth (ala Clark Kent) and hops out a dope slangin’ hood superhero…OR that stupid ninjas actually try to make this dream a reality. Dudes who talk about how they can switch it up and go from hood to professional don’t know what either of the two are.

2b) CHICKS WHO SAY THEY WANT A CORPORATE THUG. These heauxs are just as stupid as the ninjas who perpetrate the act. I can’t tell you how many times, in conversation, I’ve heard a woman say she wanted a man who was educated and well-groomed with stable secure benefits and values…but also Bunz from Belly at the core. Bish please! And where, pre tell, do you expect to meet this knight in shining armor, ma’am? “Giving back” at a work-release sponsored community fundraising All White Party? Or maybe mentoring young thugs on how to dopeman their way through grad school and still write an effective thesis? *smh* Go to hell.

3) ELITE AND ESTABLISHED SISTAS THAT ONLY DATE THUGS. *even longer and more drawn out sigh than before* Let’s start with the basics…most women only stunt and front to be more secure/established than they really are. That said, for those that aren’t fronting and really do have their ducks in a row…the odds of her dating ManMan from the block are so astronomically slim it’s not even funny. TV, and black romance novels, have really got ninjas fooled out here. If you’re working with an 11th grade education and 2 felonies, ain’t no way in the East or West side of Hell you get a shot at some BAD chick graduating from Med/Law/Professional school. Even if she slick dumb as hell on relationship end and says she wants a guy with an “edge”…she really means she’ll let ANY doctor/resident/dentist smash and as long as he listens to a little rap music and is cool with her uncles smoking joints at the family picnic…not YOU doeboy. Unlike the previous points, I’ll concede that these women may actually exist, “I” just don’t know any of them. And even if some random hood nigga does wind up with a degree’d up star…he’s known her FOR-EVER, like forever-ever, back when she was rockin’ the pony tail on the side of her head and wasn’t shyt and managed to stay in the running long enough. Otherwise, you have no chance. The man shortage ain’t that bad pimp, and elite women have more options then they’ll admit, before they make it that far down the list to let you roll blunts on her Formica countertops.

*sigh*
There’s been some conversation, “chronicling” if you will, about life on the Sideline. It’s been largely documented as largely male phenomena, but I’d like to clear something up for you all out there. I know I’ve spent some time talking about how to get a man and vice versa, but let me let you in on a little secret:Not every woman wants a man.
And by “a man” I mean “a boyfriend,” a “husband,” a “relationship” with expectations, boundaries, and obligations and shit. And more specifically, she doesn’t want all that with YOU. Most of you guys seem to be under the erroneous impression that women should be impressed by your good looks, credentials, and “game,” to the point where you seem to think every woman you meet wants to be your wife. They want to lock you down, so you have to lie and manipulate to stroke your ego get what you want. You seem to think you’re so super slick that we can’t see that you ain’t shit. But we can. We know. And half the damn time…We just don’t care!!
People believe that all women are full of emotion and attachment. That she thinks sex is beautiful and to be cherished between 2 people who love each other. You think that she loves every man she dates, that she puts up with your bullshit and your lies because she cares about you.
*Buzzer* WRONG!!!

She puts up with it because she has no interest in actually BEING with you. Game recognize game, Granddad. You’re “practice,” and practice makes perfect – perfect for someone who ain’t you. And what she told me she’d like me to tell you is this familiar, yet little used phrase:
You ain’t gotta lie to kick it.
True story:
Since I’m presently married, let’s just say I know a friend who once knew a young man while back in college. He was a nice enough young fellow, kinda pretty, but seemed to think she didn’t notice 2 things:

He was broke as hell.

He was a man whore (no offense to El Jugo).

As a result, she wasn’t interested in spending time with him, and by “time” I mean “any other time in which they would NOT be fucking.” However, failing to see her disinterest in anything not carnal, he continued to lie about the amount of money he earned, and that the man-faced woman she saw him at the mall with was NOT his girlfriend. But my friend didn’t care about those things cause she didn’t care about him. He was just “company,” so you can imagine she was appalled when he had the audacity to ask for the keys to her sweet off-campus apartment because they were “dating.” Ummmm…Did you notice how she didn’t speak to you when she saw you and Man Face at the mall? Or how about the whole “She only calls you after midnight” thing? Missed that part? Cause if anyone’s ever started a sentence with, “I mean, you cool and all, …” then you’re clearly not dating…

So, let me provide 5 little handy hints on how to properly identify your role as the Sideline Breaux (sounds like Heaux, but bro…it’s creole):

You can’t sleep over.No need to make up excuses about where you’re headed because her roommate “doesn’t like overnight guests.” Or she’s got an 8:00am meeting/appointment/class and needs a good night’s rest which doesn’t involve you trying to cuddle with her. . . Cause she only cuddles with people she likes…like her man which she may or may not already have…but is clearly not you.

You’ve never seen her bedroom. You only play on the couch, or at your house. Why? Cause her man sleeps there and she doesn’t want to disrespect her relationship. POW!

Don’t ask, don’t tell. She’s spends a lot of time not asking you where you’ve been because a.) She doesn’t care and b.) She doesn’t want you to feel like its okay for you to do the same. Let’s just keep this shit light, okay?

No PDA. Even women who don’t like PDA will tolerate the shit from her MAN. But YOU? Naaaaw, buddy. *hands in pockets* No unsanctioned touching and no longing glances from across the room. And stop calling to grab lunch. I already have lunch plans with the guy I’m NOT having sex because I’d like to pursue something serious with HIM. Not YOU. I’LL call YOU…

No Favors. No, you can’t borrow my car because your car is in the shop. No, you can’t hold a little something till pay day. Don’t you understand that we ain’t friends and that I’m NOT your woman?

And these handy dandy tips all boil down to one key point that I’d like you to internalize in your tiny hearts:
Women are better at keeping a dude on the sidelines then men will EVER BE. Your sad and insatiable desire for pussy to have your ego stroked will always lead to you looking like a simp, and eventually, a lonely simp as the woman you love will leave, your sideline will have met another rapper/baller, one will take her to Cancun unlike your broke ass. Professional sideline heaux can build careers off being a sideline heaux (I see you, Basketball Wives!). Sideline breaux are just happy to be here. No one is paying their rent. Where is their reality show? There isn’t one.

Unless…. [GIANT DISCLAMER]

Unless you are capable of The Ultimate Fuckmedown. *thunder rolls, lightening flashes, cue “I’m Sprung”*
If you’re going to be a Sideline Breaux that is worthy some rent money, a little something to hold until pay day, and the jeopardization of whatever relationship she may have with the man she intends to really be with, you have GOT to bring the pain, both literally and figuratively. Backs must be blown out, hair pulled, rug burn on the palms of her hands. So if she doesn’t say to you, “I’ve never done that before!” then you, sir, have failed, and no, you can’t stay the night. My roommate doesn’t like overnight guests.

And for the record, Sideline Heaux aren’t the only ones who catch feelings. You think, she’s cool, she’s got some things going for her, she likes to have sex, she’s secure and she doesn’t make any demands of you and boom! You just might start to really “like” her…then think you’re even “dating” and even try to ask her who that guy was you saw her with at Starbucks (“A caramel macchiato? Noooooooooo!). It happens. But that doesn’t change who you are, Sideline Breaux. In fact, it just complicates things…But, we don’t like being alone, so until we find someone that’s worth cooking for or talking to, you’ll do.